The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [81]
This, too, was a book, wrapped in brown paper and bound in twine. The twine had been cut and re-tied, the paper inattentively wrapped; faint indentations on the paper suggested that it had sat for weeks, if not months.
It was a beautiful volume, leather-bound and tooled with gilt with the name Damian Adler on the front.
When I opened the book and saw what it contained, I knew why it had taken Holmes so long to return to Mycroft's this evening.
“Did he tell you about this?” I asked.
“He never mentioned it. I expect he had it made some time ago, intending to send it to me when we returned.”
“And he would hardly bring it with him to Sussex, considering why he came.”
“No.”
It was a book of Damian's sketches and watercolour paintings, mounted and magnificently bound. None was larger than eight inches by six; some were intricate pen-and-ink drawings, others leisurely pencil outlines. The watercolours had a wistful, autumnal air to them, even those clearly showing spring. None of the pieces had moons or trenches; none of them was done in the style he used now. One watercolour of Irene Adler in a garden chair was stunning.
“What is this cottage he's done several times, the one with the pond in the garden?”
“His mother's house, outside of Paris in Ste Chapelle.”
“Where he was born.”
“Yes. I went to see it that day, after we'd seen him in gaol.”
I turned the page, and recognised the ivy-draped face of the Ste Chapelle gaol. A tall, thin, middle-aged Englishman filled the doorway, his face in the shadows.
I reached the end, and turned back to the first page, considering. On the surface, the book was a son's demonstration to his father of skill and personal history. But there was more to it than that.
Take this first drawing: a portrait of Irene Adler. Holmes' other album also began with her, as a woman beautiful and filled with life; here, she was still lovely, but it was the ethereal beauty of a woman ground down by troubles. She seemed to be contemplating a deep well of sadness within. Had that particular woman ever borne that expression? Had Irene Adler ever been ethereal?
The next sketch, showing a dark-haired little boy on a deserted beach, had a similar air of loneliness to it.
And, looking more closely, the man in the doorway of the gaol was unnaturally rigid, cold amidst the warmth of old stone and luxurious vines.
No: This was not a collection of work brought together to please a father. The paper was the same, beginning to end: Each piece had been done expressly for the purpose of this book.
For what? So that Damian could come home to lay his accomplishment at the feet of a father he hoped to know? Or so he could shove his hard life and his current success into his father's face? The overkill of the book, so ornate the binding nearly overshadowed the art within, made one aware of anger in its beauty.
The book had been designed to make Holmes wince.
I closed the cover and looked at Holmes. He was slumped into the chair, outstretched ankles crossed, eyes shut. This was not the moment to address the question of filial affection.
“Do you really—” I started, but he cut me off.
“He did not anticipate liking me,” he said. “It galled him, to ask for my help, but he put his feelings aside because he loved his wife. Three days in my company changed him. I'm not certain he would have given me that book, in the end.”
“Do you think you can keep Lestrade from finding out that Damian is your son?”
“All it requires is inefficiency and misfiled information. Mycroft can arrange that.”
“I hope you know what you're doing, Holmes.”
One grey eye came open. “My dear Russell,” he said lightly, “I have been deceiving the official police since before you were born. At that art, I am the expert.”
The Elements (2): The man learned to manipulate
the Elements. As his Guide had taught him to control the
weak, now his inner Guide led him in turning the
Elements to his divine will.
Testimony, II:6
WE TOOK OUR INNOCENT FACES TO NEW SCOTLAND Yard bright and early on Monday